Healing
by Elly'sCake
Summary: A more detailed look at the events which occurred in the Houses of Healing, including the thoughts of two particular people and how their recovery was reached. FaramirxEowyn (duh)
1. Chapter 1

Life.

It was not something she wished to return to.

The abyss lay open before her, steadily pulling her towards it, and she did not fight. She knew it would mean her death, knew that the dark chasm brimmed with evil, but it somehow seemed so inviting, like a warm hearth to rest by after a cruel day of . . . life.

Had her brother not been at her bedside, his worried, painful tears ringing sharp but muffled in her mind's eye, she would never have woken.

When she did, she wished she hadn't, for the first face she saw was a great source of her pain. He breathed in relief and sat back wearily. For a moment, all she could see was him, causing hurt and confusion to register on her features before she caught sight of her brother.

"Eowyn?"

The voice broke her thoughts and she turned. Her heart lurched as she recognized Eomer's tear-stained yet now hopeful face. All she could get out was a scarcely audible, "Yes?" He laughed in shaky relief and stooped over to hold her as gently as he could.

"I thought I had lost you! When I found you out on the Pelennor . . . oh, Eowyn! How could you have done such a thing? I meant to keep you safe by leaving you behind . . ."

He let go of her and searched her ice-colored eyes with his own slate ones.

She could not speak. What would she say that he would not rebuff? Her eyes flitted to Aragorn for a moment, who was gazing at her pitifully. Again, she wished she had not woken.

Her voice breathless and wispy, she managed, "Safety is for those who lack honor."

Eomer shook his head and began to refute her statement, but Aragorn stopped him and said, "She is yet exhausted from her struggles with the Black Breath. We should allow her some time to heal before distressing her with argument. It would be a fairer discussion if she were recovered, anyhow." At that, he smiled slightly.

Her brother was not so certain, however. Reluctantly, he kissed his sister's head and rose to leave. After promising to return, his form disappeared from the hall of wounded. She watched him until he was gone, not wanting to turn to the other face still beside her.

"I will make sure there is a place for you to heal in the Houses, Lady. It is my sincerest wish that you will find hope and solace there."

She did not answer. She only continued to stare at the place where her brother had been.

Aragorn sighed and rose to go assist the others still unconscious under the Black Breath. "Get better, Lady," and with that, he was gone.

She did not know if she would obey his command. Death's door still lay open before her, and although her love for Eomer kept her from walking immediately into it, how long this would last could not be guessed. Even after waking only minutes before, the pull of darkness scratched faintly in her mind, whispering smoothly for her to go back to it. Where she would fall into the abyss.

Hours later, still laying in the same spot, she concluded that life was still not something she wished to return to.


	2. Chapter 2

The room was silent.

Every so often, anxious feet thumping on hard tile would echo down the hallway, but otherwise, all was still. So still that he felt as if he was not allowed to breathe.

As he stared at the white ceiling above him, his mind drifted back to the last few days. Most of them were blurry. Snatches of reality emerged only if he really concentrated, which was exhausting. He remembered a million flying arrows . . . the distressed cries of horses and fallen men . . . and fire ripping through his gut . . . fire . . . He remembered fire, and the faint smell of burning wood, and . . . his father's voice, distant. But then reality was less vivid. It blended into a mess of blood, bandages, and too many faces of concerned strangers . . . but one face stood out.

The king had come and called him back from the edge of death. He had not been as striking as expected, but the rough appearance told of much experience, and the profound eyes spoke of Numenorean decent and great valor. Vaguely, the remembrance of choking out, "What does my king command?" returned. What a state to be in to finally meet the king. If only he had been in better health . . . but the memory also contained instructions: "Awake and no longer be in darkness. Eat, rest, and improve."

Again, the silence filled the air, his thoughts stilled.

If the king bid him wake, that is what he would do. Slowly, he rose from his bed, grimacing at the pain in his ribs, but he would not lay idle anymore. Unconsciousness had stolen days from him, and sleep held no peace at the moment.

"My lord, Faramir?" A healer had heard his efforts from the hallway and come in to investigate.

Faramir looked up at her, feeling ridiculous but not any less convicted to rise. "I could not bring myself sleep any longer. I wish to walk around a while, if I may."

She appeared as if she were about to object, but then said, "Wait here a moment, my lord. You have not yet risen from your bed, and I would hate to leave you without a support."

He nodded, and she left the room. Certainly, she would have dissuaded him? But perhaps she had seen something beneficial in the freedom to roam that he had not yet discovered. How many others, he wondered, had given her the same request? _How many others were in the Houses? . . ._

His mind turned suddenly to the men who had ridden with him out to Osgiliath. He had to sit down again.

Returning with a wooden crutch, the healer noticed the grief smeared across his face and hesitantly set it by the door. "My lord?"

Faramir's eyes bolted to her concerned face. She could barely keep herself from gasping at the pain she saw there. ". . . I will just leave this here, my lord . . . in case you should need it . . ." Then she curtseyed hastily and left the room.

He spotted the crutch leaning against the wall.

 _Though the dark is great, I will fight to heal . . . if not for me, but in honor of my men . . ._


	3. Chapter 3

It was strange how desperately exhausted Eowyn was, but for the life of her, she could not fall asleep.

The healers had continually demanded she lie abed all day and rest. It drove her mad. Worse yet, she was prescribed constant bedrest for over a week . . .by _him!_ He had put her in the exact cage that she had told him she feared! True, at least it was not a prison of the enemy, but it was horrifically confining nonetheless!

Only two things she knew for certain: One, she would not accept this cage, and two, if she did not find a way out soon, her chance for valor would be gone forever.

Therefore, she spent her waking hours plotting escape. Escape seemed unlikely, however. Her body was frail although only her arms were visibly wounded, and she knew exhaustion would claim her as soon as she attempted (as that would be the most logical and predictable situation). Her appetite was nonexistent. Her dreams were filled with horror, and her mind's eye behaved the same. Despite her physical being working against her, she resolved she would get out even if it meant crawling across the cold stones and throwing herself over a wall. At least if she died, she would not be in the cage.

But she could not get up.

Earlier in the day, she had attempted the feat, only to feel her legs shake violently until her entire form crashed to the floor. A startled healer had rushed in at the noise and nearly jumped out of her robe. Eowyn was then raised carefully onto her bed, thoroughly examined for injuries, and clucked at for the next half hour about the dangers of rising too early. She was not a child, but she felt that these Gondorians must think her so. All the pain and suffering of her life had led up to this—a prison of petty demands.

Her thoughts were broken by a soft knock tapping at the door frame. Her brother's form appeared, and she sighed in relief. Her relief was short lived, though, for his furrowed brows and sullen eyes suggested uncomfortable news. Did he intend to finish the argument she had started shortly after waking?

"Eowyn, there is not much time for me to speak, but I have to tell you something before I go—"

"Before you go?"

"Yes . . . the king has decided all remaining forces are to go to . . . the Black Gates of . . . Mordor . . . to buy the halfling a little more time."

Eowyn's mouth dropped open. How could Aragorn do this? What little men there were left could never hold up against the ocean of orcs in Mordor, and to issue this command merely days after the bloodshed on the Pelennor . . . what folly! Surely none of them would return alive—but that was what she had been after, wasn't it? She leaped at the chance for a suicide mission as soon as her uncle gave word to gather the Riders, and this godforsaken attempt to take the Black Gates would be her second chance to receive an honorable death . . . along with her brother. She would not tell him what she planned to do, knowing Eomer would object as before. All at once, waves of fury, sorrow, and excitement filled her, along with a number of questions she had not previously considered . . .

"How soon do you depart, Eomer?"

"The orders were to set out just prior to sundown. Oh, Eowyn, I should have visited you more than this, more than a mere few hours before riding off to certain doom! But that is not even the gravest of my news . . ."

She understood then about which he spoke. It did not matter that he was leaving, nor did it matter how she escaped the Houses, nor did it matter what Aragorn decided. "Does your news regard . . . Uncle?" Her throat caught on the last word. Eomer's eyes confirmed her thoughts.

Suddenly, she could not keep her own from spilling over, and though she was already weak, she permitted herself to sob at the loss of her beloved Uncle Théoden, who had been as a father to her after her own parents had been laid in dust. She would no longer hear his rumbling laughter echo through the Golden Hall, nor would she watch his pupils sparkle at the sight of her entry. But what stung deepest lay in the briefness of Théoden's freedom. Only days before Helm's Deep had his proud form regained its strength, and his last months were filled with war, death, and destruction. An old man should not have to bury his children or live to his end in fear, and though Rohan's king carried high honor, he would no more walk his lands in peace, even if the Dark Lord failed to acquire them. Eowyn's efforts had been wasted. Her arms were shattered to save her uncle, and still he had perished. What good was the death of a Nazgul if the goal of slaying remained unreached?

Eomer held his sister tight as her body racked in sorrow. In all honesty, he hardly felt up to fighting, and would have preferred to stay and see Eowyn through, but he admired Aragorn and respected his king's wishes, no matter how foolish they seemed.

"Eowyn?"

"Yes, brother?" she choked.

"Will you promise me something?"

"Of course."

"When I am away, promise me you will try to heal. Even if the world will soon end, I would be comforted to know my sister is able-bodied so that she can enjoy her last days and slay when the orcs arrive."

Eowyn smiled, but she did not know if she could keep such a promise, but if both were to die anyhow, agreeing would very well mean nothing, and she would still ride secretly with the Men of the West as she had done before.

"I promise, Eomer."

He sighed and held her tighter, one last time. Then he let go, quickly caressed her grief-stricken but smiling face, and faded from the room.

For a moment, she did not move, but once his heavy footfalls disappeared, she threw her weight onto the bedside table and resolved to find a way out of her prison. Nothing dare keep her from fulfilling her objective. Especially since the world seemed to be ending sooner than it was.

Her whole life had been the world ending, anyhow.


	4. Chapter 4

About a week had passed since Faramir had awoken in the Houses. The crutch left by the healer proved its use right away, as he hastily reached for it after her departure and pushed himself along as far as he could until exhaustion overtook him. To his great relief, he discovered a stone bench nearby. He fell onto it, and that was when he noticed the entrance to the gardens. Each day after finding them, he went there. The emerald leaves, blossoming floras, and quiet birdsong faintly reminded him of his mother's garden, and the color amidst the cold white stone told that life still permeated the earth despite his thoughts continually drifting to the dead.

Oh, sharp was the loss of his mother, Findulas, but Boromir's fall had cut much deeper. And still worse was the death of his father.

The first red flag waved when a healer mistakenly addressed him as, "My lord, Steward," and then quickly attempted to fix it. His suspicion led him to question anyone he knew as to where his father was, but all said nothing and cast their eyes downward. Not until the previous day had he gotten his answer.

 _"_ _Mithrandir! It is a relief to see you!" Faramir had not seen the old wizard since departing for Osgiliath, and had wondered at his whereabouts. Gandalf, unlike Denethor, had invested heavily in Faramir's knowledge and wellbeing when he could, which established him in Faramir's eyes as a trustworthy, grandfatherly sort._

 _"_ _And I, you, Lord Faramir. I trust you are getting along well?"_

 _"_ _As well as I may."_

 _"_ _Indeed." The wizard seemed slightly hesitant, but hid it easily behind a gentle smile. "I thought it a sensible idea to come visit you before accompanying the ranks to Mordor."_

 _Faramir raised an eyebrow. "Mordor?"_

 _Mithrandir sighed. "Yes, Mordor. It would seem your charge for suicide is no different than ours." At this he chuckled softly. "I would be lying, however, if I did not say I am glad you must stay behind."_

 _The edges of the young steward's mouth curled slightly, but a solemn question burned in his mind._

 _"_ _Mithrandir? . . . I am grateful for your company and your light-heartedness, but because you are departing soon, I must ask you . . . I remember being wounded at Osgiliath, but what occurred after that? Sometimes I think I remember something . . . but perhaps I was only dreaming in Black Breath and strong medicine?"_

 _The White Wizard frowned carefully as the man spoke, his eyes boring into a space in the distance._

 _"_ _Mithrandir?"_

 _For a long moment, the same suffocating silence settled in the air. Finally, Gandalf said, ". . . I supposed no one else would tell you. Personally, I did not want to tell you either, as I felt it would hinder your recovery. But since I will no longer be here, I think you deserve to know._

 _Your father was a good man, Faramir. A little too stubborn, and a bit biased, but good."_

 _Faramir knew then that the situation was bad._

 _"_ _Losing Findulas was the first step towards his alarming need to bury himself in the protection of Gondor, but after Boromir passed, I believe that is when he truly began to lose his mind. Grief does terrible things, especially to those who are acquainted with it far too often. You may protest that you felt the same grief as he did, but you must understand that he was also convinced he lost_ you _. And it was_ his _fault._

 _When you were brought in from the fields, you were gravely wounded but still alive. He perceived you as dead and from then on would not listen to reason with_ anyone. _In his anguish, your father ordered a great fire to be built, setting you atop it and climbing on himself. If it were not for Peregrin Took and Beregond, I would not have arrived in time to pluck you off. I tried to reach Denethor as well, but he was caught and did not realize you were alive until it was too late._

 _Truly, Faramir, I am sorry. You know too much sorrow already. And now you are steward, a position you had not expected to take up. I can only hope two hobbits succeed in their task, and that, should it be so, you find a joyful future and lightened responsibility after the king is crowned."_

 _Somehow, the news held little surprise. That did not make it hurt any less, however. His father, the lord Denethor, was dead. Faramir was the last of his family, and no matter how much he yearned for it, no resolution would come between father and son._

 _Tears quietly seeped onto the young man's cheeks. "Thank you for telling me, Mithrandir."_

 _"_ _Oh, my boy," murmured the wizard as he rose and gently patted Faramir's shoulder. Then he walked slowly to the door. "Take care of yourself, Faramir. You are still alive, and may yet have some purpose to accomplish. I know you will fare well should you find it."_

 _Though he felt sick with heartache, the steward lifted his eyes and nodded, the ghost of a smile showing on his face. Mithrandir returned it kindly, then set off for his next errand. Faramir tried to sit in the garden afterward, but the blooms only spoke of death, grave, and goodbye. No one else tarried there, so he allowed himself to weep—over his mother, over his brother, over the men of his company, and his father. That day, he would be hopeless, but he swore that he would fight hopelessness the next._

And so, he was once again in the garden. The remaining Men of the West would ride for the Black Gate in the coming hours, and though darkness threatened to swallow him again, he battled it by noticing every lovely thing around him: the birdsong, a butterfly flitting on the path, a sudden burst of light through the clouds, and, much to his confusion, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen coming towards him with the Warden of the Houses.


End file.
